


Pressing Flowers

by spincontroller



Category: Shovel Knight
Genre: Character Study, Experimental work, M/M, Two-parter, propstriker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spincontroller/pseuds/spincontroller
Summary: Propeller Knight gets injured in combat, and his savior is an unexpected one.





	1. I

A blustering flash of blue was the only thing Propeller Knight could see—and there were flickers of the golden embroidery that to him resembled threads of wheat underneath a midnight sky, or a string of golden hearts that would encircle above his head and cause his entire body to spin. That blue as deep as the oceans far below them engulfed him, and his tilting body came to a halt.

An echo of thunder in the distance.

For a moment it had felt as if they were dancing, as the dazed knight felt his head dip back towards the floor, and his body bend completely backwards. He saw the blue again in his vision, tasted it on his tongue like one of the sweetest liqueurs he had ever tasted, syrupy and warm. The light and the blue and the rest of the colors all began to bleed together, and the mélange felt so heavy on his eyes that he finally gave in and closed them. He allowed his body to descend gently as possible, further and further backwards, until he could potentially see the furthest depths of the Lost City, had he still had his vision. He could feel something gently brush his face as something else lifted his legs up to the air. He uttered (what he hoped was) a _dignified_ pained sound.

“Hold still.”

There was an extraordinary pressure against Propeller’s left arm, to which he might have winced at, but he could not be certain. It made him think about pressing flowers. His mind wandered to each colorful bouquet delivered to him by his admirers. First he would start with the roses, nestling them between the pages of books he’d already read; he’d left them to dry for hours on parchment before taking them to be pressed, his fingers slipped delicately between the petals. He’d start with the roses and then their companions, the magnolias; and then the carnations, the lavender and the lilies, the violets and the pansies (he considered this pair of flowers sisters, and always pressed them together). He noted how the stem was always the most difficult part of the flower to flatten, and required more pressure than the head and the leaves.

His arm, now a bright green flower stem, would be flattened for the sake of preserving its beauty. First his arm and then the rest of his body would be mashed between the covers of two heavy books, at least 700 pages or so, of the densest and heaviest words possible. Soon more books would be stacked atop the initial two, until the stack nigh reached the ceiling.

He thought it understandable that it would come to this—someone had found him to be such a priceless gift that they would perform this sacrifice to assure he would not wilt and become unsalvageable. There was another burst of pressure on his arm near his shoulder; whoever this was had been so thorough that he imagined they would gradually move from his shoulder to his chest, down to his opposite arm.

“Allow me… a mere few moments…”

That voice again. It was so deep and unassuming and unmarred by frustration and arrogance. But it did not sound like any of his crew.

“A minor setback…”

Propeller Knight could scarcely make out the words now, only leaving him with broken phrases to parse through. Certainly the setback this speaker was referring to was that he did not have enough books.

“It is a fair assumption… but nevertheless…”

“Ah.”

Another thunderclap made its wave across the soundscape. It was more intense than its predecessor, and left the knight’s ears ringing.

He wondered when he could open his eyes and regain his ability to register _anything_ that was occurring around him. There were scattered voices here-and-there of his mates, who all sounded frantic, as if they were searching for something important. But more important was that the terrible throbbing in his arm did not cease. He wanted badly to ask where everyone was going without him. He wanted badly to ask if he was still alive—

 _But the rose hips hanging from his golden trellises_  
_had not yet been harvested, and what would become_  
_of the marmalades that his crew spent their time preparing_  
_and what of the violets that remained separated_  
_from their sisters because there were not enough pansies to spare?_

A sudden excruciating pain like a crack of lightning tore the sky clean open and violently pulled Propeller’s thought process from the roots. That blue again fluttered through the wind in his mind, which carried him into vast unrelenting space, until the lightning’s temporary tendrils burst into seamless light, and vanished into the ether.


	2. II

_The captain remembered a performance he attended at an opera house near Pridemoor. In it he remembered that in the final act the antagonist met his untimely demise after having his body crushed by a falling piano. He watched as the tenor sneakily slipped through a trapdoor leading underneath the stage, to create the illusion that he vanished underneath the instrument’s weight. Then the protagonist and his true love skipped gleefully across the scene, and proceeded to waltz on top of the piano, underneath which their hated nemesis now lay dead. He recalled that their duet was quite lovely, though the soprano could have toned her sharps better, and her beau could have adjusted his wig somewhat. He recalled castrato was the term for such._

_Could one, perhaps, press flowers with a piano? He had considered it, and certainly held the means to do so. However, he could not—much like himself, and the actor on stage, they were much too delicate to handle such peer pressure._

_How he longed to hear that voice again. (How long had it been?)_

_Too much_  
_light_  
.  
  
  
  
The cold wind came as a light surprise, caressing Propeller Knight’s cheek with a feather’s gentleness. He awoke with a start, and heard himself utter an automatic distressed sound of sorts. When the second breeze touched his ear he began to register the familiarity of his own bed, nestled in the quietest crook of his private quarters.

A patter of footsteps approached nearby, then seemingly scattered away. “I think he’s…”  
He cracked his eyes open and immediately the light blinded him. He shielded his face with his arm, and discovered he was not wearing his esteemed coat. Nor could he move his other arm.

“Yes, I think so…” He finally recognized one of the voices in his crew. His second in command.

He found himself dressed in a loose tunic with the sleeves cut off; one of his own. _How could they?_ He had a mind to punish whoever was responsible for this travesty. What had this been—some manner of mutiny? He turned his head to his limp arm, completely tightly wound in cloth wrappings. He stopped himself for a moment. _It is preposterous to believe even for a second that your crew would consider such a thing,_ he pondered. _What has gotten into you, my friend?_

He drew in a deep breath—relieved that he could still manage such—and slowly let his sigh loose, reminiscent of a tea kettle’s whistle. He gazed across the room to the books on his desk. A faint pall of haze clouded his head. He was so tired, and so dazed. He shook his head to relieve his face of his hair. He tugged his duvet from his body with his free arm.

“I must ensure his stability before I depart.” It was the same deep voice he had heard above deck.

The pieces were beginning to return to him now: The skirmish. The pressure on his arm, the lifting, the frantic voices. The storm.

_The drastic change in the weather in such a short amount of time._

Time. He wondered again how much time had passed while he was asleep.

The footsteps were heavy now, and approached his room. Specks of dust scattered and exposed themselves underneath the rays of the sunset. The Flying Machine’s beloved captain watched them flit through the air as the unfamiliar figure entered through the doorway, a guard following closely behind him. Immediately he recognized the blue of the man’s cape, but what Propeller Knight noticed this time was his helmet, which donned at least eight long goldenrod spikes.

“Pardon my intrusion.” He spoke before Propeller could. “Above anything else, I feel that I must apologize for trespassing your ship.”

Propeller chuckled. “It would appear I am not quite in the position to chastise you for trespassing, wouldn’t you say?”

“It still seemed appropriate.” Propeller watched as the caped man looked him over. He imagined he was studying his condition.

“I would, however, like to inquire as to why you are here in the first place.”

“Yes…” He threw the loose end of his cape back over his shoulder. “I did not arrive expecting your ship to already be involved in a skirmish.”

“What quite were you expecting, then?”

“I arrived here with the intention of challenging Sir Propeller Knight of the Order of No Quarter to a duel.”

Propeller’s eyes brightened. “A duel, you say?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, for a moment. Propeller had been expecting him to say more.

“And what, might I ask, is your name?” The question had slipped from his lips without prior thought—if this man had been the strain of warrior he had expected him to be, he’d _never_ reveal his name outright. He felt a breeze slip in from somewhere across the room as he watched the man vaguely glance to the side. “A title will do,” he rectified.

Another silence hung in the air. This time Propeller Knight caught a glimpse of his eyes through the cover of his helm. _Curious,_ he thought.

“Would any storm, that has begun to brew, fail to inspire fear in even the fearless?”  
It was not the question that caught Propeller off guard, but the way this man denied him time to answer. 

“The people of these lands call me the Phantom Striker,” he continued. “You asked for a title, and this is the only of such I have ever known.”

Propeller inwardly scanned over his memories for any tales, any mentions of this mysterious fighter that he may have overlooked. He considered it odd that he, of all people, could not recognize this stranger at first glance. Perhaps he had only newly emerged as a warrior— _but he implied a slew of others knew his existence already—goodness! This certainly was perplexing._

“Have you any other questions, I shall respond to them,” the Phantom Striker continued, “but time grows thin, and I must soon bid you farewell.”

Propeller chuckled. “You would not even stay for tea? How barbarian.” He heard the other man grunt.

“Do you insult me? I have no time for such pleasantries!” Striker turned back towards the door. Propeller seized the opportunity—quite literally—and grasped onto the glorious cape as it fluttered upwards. 

“Relax! Relax,” he repeated, playfully tugging on the man’s cape. “It was merely a jest! I _am,_ however, yearning to know exactly what transpired after you arrived.”

“Release me, first.”

“You really are quite the sordid type, no?”

“Speak of me what you will.”

The captain faintly registered a telltale shift in the air, and an infant rumble far through the sky. “I understand your style of things, now,” he conceded, letting go.

“One of your intruders caught you off your guard,” Striker continued. “He wailed his dirge of dishonor; he threw his all into his performance.” Propeller stared at him a moment. “He disarmed you, and nearly in the literal sense.”

“I could gather as much, yes!”

“I assisted your crew in setting your arm.” He continued his stride towards the door. “You muttered something of flowers for the entirety of your ordeal.” He picked up the loose end of his cape that Propeller brusquely pulled—he eyed it carefully. It engrossed him enough that he seemed not to have more to say.

The wind battered the outside. 

“I suppose, then, I must offer you my gratitude, above all else,” said the captain, who eyed the other man seriously this time. He was halfway facing the door. “Despite all inconveniences, and even before them, you still ventured so far to come see me!”

“Think of it what you will.”

“Oh, I most _certainly_ will.”

This caused Striker to halt again, though his back was now turned to Propeller. There was an audible sigh. The ship’s guard allowed him room for passage. “I shall return in a single moon.” His words seemed to carry themselves across the air as their speaker dissolved into the darkness of the evening. In the same moment, Propeller Knight unfurled the fingers of his injured arm to reveal a single petal of a long-spurred violet, its dark veins resembling bolts of lightning. 

He overheard discussion of damage to the ship. Slowly he found his gaze revert back to his books, and realized they were arranged in ways he did not recall before. A smile wormed its way across his lips at the sight of two flowers on the floor, a violet and a sunshine-colored pansy, stems curled around each other, inseparable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know where this work would go, but it's my first "finished" fanfiction in about nine years. I will sporadically be posting continuations to this in pieces, probably not in chronological order (of no quarter), but we'll see where this takes me. Thank you for reading!
> 
> (note about this chapter--my headcanon Phantom Striker has four eyes, and Propeller Knight probably noticed it while observing him, hence the "curious" comment.)


End file.
